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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, residences, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several